


Nadir

by Xenolis



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenolis/pseuds/Xenolis
Summary: Semi-infected and very adamantlynotwanting to join their fucking musical, Paul tries to have as normal a day as the circumstances will allow. Finally, he has the chance to properly get to know Emma, but each time the aliens and their blue shit are dead-set on ruining everything.They may try to convert him, but no matter what, Paul Matthews willneverfollow their script.
Relationships: Paul Matthews & Emma Perkins, Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	Nadir

**Author's Note:**

> I say this was a writing exercise in description and characterisation but in reality it was just an excuse for me to rewatch TGWDLM for the millionth time without feeling guilty lmAo. But two cute habits I noticed with Paul and Emma whilst writing this: firstly, they say each other's names A Lot, and secondly, they're always grabbing each other's forearms.
> 
> Anyway Black Friday slaps and I forgot I've had this in my drafts since like August/September 2019 so I may as well post it now!! Hope you enjoy (:

Paul just wanted a black coffee. That's all he wanted, because something was very wrong with the world today. Emma's voice slightly soothed his anxieties as she complained about her job, which was the most reassuringly normal thing that had happened.

And she remembered his name! That was definitely the one good thing to occur on this chaotic nightmare of a day.

His blue gaze dubiously roamed the small coffee shop, glaring at the other customers that were seated at various tables, all looking perfectly content and normal, and most importantly, not _singing_ – but he still couldn't let his guard down. He didn't want to be in a fucking musical.

Emma's movements were weighed down with obvious exhaustion, but she still poured black coffee out of the silver pot with ease and grace, placing it back down on the wooden counter before grasping the white mug and offering it. Although frantic and desperate, Paul was delicate in taking it from her grip, immediately raising it to his mouth and taking a small sip, ignoring the way it scorched his mouth. It might've tasted a bit strange, but he was more focused on more important things, like getting the barista to understand the potential predicament.

He placed the mug down on the counter then lightly pulled Emma off to one side, sequentially gripping onto her biceps and shoulders and hands, just to reassure himself that she was real. His voice came out strained and slightly manic as he explained everything to her, desperately needing her support in such a traumatic time, even if she didn't seem to take him seriously. Their joined hands lingered a moment more than necessary, even as she turned and started to head to the middle of Beanies to perform the tip song with her co-workers.

Paul's chest was burning slightly, warmth tingling through his veins that he blamed on the coffee and the discomfort of watching people sing and dance. He squirmed on the wooden chair, sitting tensely on the edge and ready to leap up at any moment. The other patrons were just sitting there, observing with smiles, like complete _psychopaths_ – who could be enjoying themselves at a time like this?!

Emma glanced at him as she swayed and harmonised, her perfect brows furrowed as it seemed she had finally started thinking about the implications. He raised his hands helplessly, nervous gaze darting around the room once again, only to dig his fingers into his chest as there was a sudden spike of pain. Paul covered his mouth and coughed into a hand, throat feeling tight and lungs starting to feel drowned, glancing at his palm and staring in horror at the blue... _shit_ that coated his pale skin.

The baristas bounced around the room, passing out mugs of shitty coffee that the other three customers gladly accepted. Paul closed his hand and gave a tight smile as Emma passed, her movements lazy and lax, and her expression looking more bored than him when he was forced to watch Moana. Emma deflated with relief and stopped dancing as if she hated the world, only for her face to grow perplexed and panicked as Nora and Zoey slid into the second part of choreography, with flailing hands and frozen, eerie smiles.

Paul hesitantly got up, wiping his hand on his dark trousers and moving to stand behind the chair as if it would protect him, his fingers curled into the cushioned back. Every instinct was begging him to flee, but there was no way he could abandon the barista to a fate worse than death. His heart was pounding in his chest and his teeth were gritted, mouth firmly closed to conceal the bitter-tasting blue goo that kept creeping up his oesophagus. It was gradually growing easier to breathe, although the faint buzzing under his skin wasn't dissipating, thrumming with a foreign energy that was encouraging him to do... _something._

Nora and Zoey were posed perfectly, one leg bent slightly at the knee, hips tilted, and arms folded down over their abdomens. Emma was ranting at them, clearly long past her breaking point and finally gaining the courage to quit her job, brown eyes glinting under the warm lighting and her countenance wrought with frustration. Despite the flyaway hairs that had come loose from the intricately pinned style, the dark circles under her eyes, and the fact that she was angrily growling out her irritation to her soon-to-be ex-coworkers, Paul thought she looked beautiful and totally badass for standing up for herself.

If he had any doubts about the two baristas being infected or not, they were slashed the moment the pair spoke in eerily perfect sync, voices lilting and haunting, a smile in their tone that only made their words more ominous. The other patrons started to cough, looking at first confused, then gradually more alarmed as the fit grew more drastic, like they were hacking up their insides as they tumbled off the chairs and collapsed onto the floor. Their mugs shattered on the wooden boards, spilling what little remained across the sleek ground next to them. Blue oozed from their mouths and noses and their eyes were glassy. Paul's chest gave another thrum of pain that made him double over the chair, one hand cupping his mouth as he spluttered, the other clutching at his ribs. Another surge of the acrid azure substance rose up his throat, seeping between his clenched teeth and spilling over his lips before dripping down his chin.

Emma stared at him in horror, glancing from the slime in the silver coffee pot, to his white mug abandoned on the counter, then back to his strained expression. The baristas started singing again, shrill and dangerous, advancing on the girl with bouncing steps as they followed through the choreography to a dance only they knew.

Paul dragged the sleeve of his suit jacket across his mouth, taking in a ragged breath before standing up straighter, panicked gaze locking on to Emma as she was backed into a corner. She managed to slip between them, ducking down and dashing across the small shop towards him and clinging to him as her coworkers tones grew rougher and more sultry, false grins replaced with bared teeth and blank faces. The patrons rose smoothly and elegantly, first shifting up onto one knee then pulling themselves back to their feet like reanimated puppets, their bodies moving to the chilling reprise as they sang along to a song they shouldn't have known.

Emma turned to him, hands grasping at his wrist and shoulder, fingers digging in desperately and her cheeks pallid with sheer terror. “They're singing! Why are they all singing?!”

Paul lightly grabbed her forearms, bravery bolstered by the desire to protect someone else as he spun them around so she was closer to the door. “We need to run, Emma. Don't look back!”

She was frozen in horror for a moment, seemingly unable to take her wide, brown eyes off the macabre scene. He gently shoved at her to encourage her to move, and she let out a shaky breath that bordered on a shriek before allowing herself to be swiftly guided from the grim shop and out into the empty street. The energy in Paul's veins allowed him to think quickly, pulling her off the road and into a side alley, never losing a point of contact between them even as they managed to calm a little whilst navigating the labyrinthine routes. It was only when they reached the alley lined with shrubs did Emma suddenly pause, her vice-like grip slipping from his forearm and her countenance growing cautious.

“You drank the coffee, too, Paul. Why aren't you singing and dancing?” She asked slowly, quietly, looking distraught by the mere suggestion, her gaze flitting over his features and flinching back when he reached out to try and reassure her.

“I don't know, Emma,” he responded in an equally soft voice, swiping a thumb across his bottom lip to try and clear the phantom feeling of blue blood clinging to his skin. “I- I didn't drink much, so maybe... Maybe it didn't affect me as badly.”

She took another step back, shoulders tense and expression distressed. “Who's to say you won't get infected and try to kill me?”

“I hate musicals. I'd sooner die than be a part of one,” Paul insisted, although he stared worriedly down at his hands, still able to see smears of blue stuck in the lines of his palms, left behind even after aggressively wiping them on his clothes.

There was a moment of silence. He lifted his head and noticed her squinting at his hands as well, although her posture had relaxed a little and she was no longer leaning on her back foot and looking ready to bolt. The tall buildings on either side of them blocked out most of the morning sunlight, leaving them standing in black shadows in the leaf-littered alleyway. Hatchetfield was too small a town to ever get _really_ noisy, but even the usual rumble of cars was quietened by their distance from the busy centre, leaving them in a solemn sort of silence broken only by their nervous puffs of breath. Emma's chest rose and fell, occasionally freezing for a moment as she guided herself through a calming breathing exercise until her hands unclenched at her sides and her body sagged in the wake of adrenaline. A few spots of blue tainted her white shirt where Paul had grabbed her shoulder, the black ribbon under her collar had loosened a little, and even more of her light brown hair had been teased free during the sprint, but to him... she still looked like a goddess.

He meekly met her gaze, offering a half-shrug and attempting a smile. “I won't tell if you won't?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose in a way that could be considered a laugh, her lips quirking up at the corners. “Alright,” Emma agreed, but then raised a pointed finger threateningly. “But the moment I think you're about to sing or dance, I'm gone.”

“I wouldn't ask for anything else, Emma,” he responded, relief palpable and a genuine grin gracing his features. “Come on – we'd better get further away, just in case.”

*

Paul felt cold. Charlotte's body was sprawled on the floor next to Sam in Hidgens' bunker, her azure-stained guts spread out beneath her and fresh blue shit oozing from the gaping wound in her head from where the professor shot her. It had all happened so quickly, and he didn't know how to process it. He just stood there, shoulders slumped and eyes wide, staring in shock at the corpse of someone who was once his friend, not quite able to believe she'd been infected so quickly. Ted was kneeling on the ground next to her, uncharacteristically distraught, a red mark already blooming on one cheek where he had been shoved to the ground moments previously.

“After examining that blue shit, it didn't take long for me to decipher that...” Hidgens paused for dramatic effect, shotgun loose in his grasp and expression solemn even as he nudged at the dead cop's body with a foot. “...Sam was no longer human, but part of the alien brew, genetically reconstructed from the inside out.” His blue graze grew intense as he turned it onto the huddled survivors, every word dramatically delivered like a line in a movie. “They're wearing our skin to fool us!” There was another pause and his eyes darted downwards, face morphing into one of alarm as he raised the gun and pointed it at the other inhabitants. “...which means any one of you could be one of them!”

Emma backed up, her hands raising in a placating gesture. Paul automatically mimicked the movement, a jolt of fear coursing through his body at the prospect of Hidgens finding out what he was hiding. Ted got to his feet a little clumsily, knees smudged with blue blood, merging back with the group and deliberately moving so he was the furthest away from the weapon.

“No, professor-” she faltered, briefly glancing over her shoulder at Paul before she softened her tone and faced the older man, trying to soothe him- “professor, we're not aliens!”

Hidgens cocked his gun, face manic and clearly unwilling to be swayed. “Sing the beginning of Moana!”

Paul let out a strangled “what?!” that seemed to echo the sentiment of the other hostages, who all shared panicked looks. They all stared at him for guidance for some reason, and after a tense moment of trying to recall the film he'd been forced to watch with Alice, he stumbled uncertainly over the first lyrics. Half of the stress vanished as he confirmed that he definitely wasn't infected because he couldn't sing, and since none of the others seemed to know what was going on either, it didn't look as if any of them were infected, either. He blinked perplexedly over his shoulder as Bill was revealed to be singing completely the wrong song, causing him to sheepishly fade out under the confused expressions he was getting.

“Not a single one of you were on pitch, which means...” Hidgens dramatically paused again, lowering the gun and peering distastefully down at the corpses. “...you're still human.”

Emma lightly elbowed Paul's side, gaining his attention. She flashed a relieved smile up at him, igniting butterflies in his stomach that he hoped weren't too obvious as he tried to smile normally back at her without looking like a constipated schoolboy with a crush. He adjusted his tie nervously the moment her gaze returned to the professor, only to notice spots of blue on the front of his white shirt, presumably from when he'd choked up that blue shit in Beanies. Sure, it didn't make much sense that somehow he wasn't infected, but he couldn't find it in himself to give a shit.

He was happy to be there with Emma and Bill, and, fuck, even _Ted_ , and that was enough for him.

*

It was hard to watch the girl he'd practically helped _raise_ sing a haunting song that echoed in the school corridors, but it was even harder to see the hope drain from his best friend's face, and it was even harder still to try and explain that the person singing was no longer Alice. Paul let his hands lightly rest on Bill's shoulders, both of them transfixed as the lyrics grew solemn and heartbreaking. The father took slow, halting steps closer to his daughter as she sang softly, and since she wasn't actively trying to murder them like Charlotte and Sam, Paul anxiously backed up a little to give them some space.

No matter how hard he looked, there was no semblance of humanity left in Alice's eyes. Deb brushed past him as the girls continued with their choreography, and he cringed away, curling in on himself for a moment before straightening back up to gaze forlornly at his broken best friend. The song ended on a low note and the teenagers froze in pose like statues, leaving the corridor unsettlingly silent and deathly still.

“I- I can't do it, Paul,” Bill choked out, gaze vacant and tone defeated even as he cast his dark eyes skyward. “I cant live in a world without my daughter. I... I can't live knowing I'm the reason they got to her...”

His chest heaved with every breath wrought with misery, and he raised the shotgun as if in a trance, pressing it under his chin. Paul darted forwards, hands frantically gripping the weapon so tightly his knuckles went white, heartbeat pounding painfully within his ribcage as he desperately wrestled the gun free, throwing it to the ground with a clatter. He turned to his friend who refused to face him, forcefully reaching out to grab Bill's biceps and keep him close, holding panicked eye contact even though the man seemed to be an empty husk of the person he once was.

“Look at me,” Paul pleaded gently, giving his friend a little shake. “You're my best friend. I'm not gonna let you _die._ ”

He heard the gunshot before he felt the pain. Bill stumbled backwards and collapsed heavily to the floor, scarlet seeping through the pale fabric of his shirt until his whole chest was dark. Blood glimmered on the sleek flooring, pooling beneath him. There was a moment where he was too shocked to do anything but let out a whimper, hunching over and staring in horror at the unmoving body of his friend in the dim corridor. His whole arm thrummed with electric, scorching agony, but his emotional pain drowned it out.

“ _Bill,_ ” he cried out, voice breaking with hysteria as he dropped to his knees, trembling hands hopelessly pressing to the fatal wound over his friend's heart in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. “Oh _god,_ Bill!”

“We just keep running into each other, don't we, Paul?” The trio chorused robotically, as if they couldn't quite work out how to speak without singing.

Paul barely moved, keeping his palms pressed firmly even as hot blood spilled between his fingers, slick on his pale skin. He turned his head sideways to stare up at the aliens, unable to summon the willpower to leave his friend and flee. They stopped harmonising and pointed the shotgun back at his head, startling him into standing up. The sudden action jolted his arm and he finally glanced at it, feeling his stomach flip sickeningly as he saw the wound. A chunk of flesh had been torn from his bicep where the shot had passed, shredding his sleeve, but that wasn't what scared him the most.

His blood was blue.

“Why do you still defy us, Paul? You're already one of us.” A deafening shot grazed past his thigh as he dodged just in time, sprinting behind them. “You are too unique to die to this puny human weapon. No-one has ever resisted for so long before, Paul.” They flung the gun down the corridor, far away, then hopped around to face him with empty eyes.

He dared another fleeting look at his arm, uncurling his hand that shielded the wound. Was it just the dim lighting, or did the injury look smaller than before?

Bill's red blood had printed on his sleeve and skin from his palm, mingling with the viscous azure that oozed from his own flesh. The gash was growing shallower, rapidly healing as he watched in mingled awe and terror. Paul's gaze darted up as the aliens stopped arguing and returned their focus to him, advancing with stiff steps. He was bordering a mental breakdown, letting out another muffled noise that bordered a sob, dashing back over to his friend's body, silently begging for him to be okay even though he knew otherwise.

A shrill note pierced the air and the trio loomed over him, teeth bared and hands curved like claws. He shoved his bloody hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

Someone wearing all black suddenly sprinted in front of him, rapid gunfire sending the infecteds fleeing. Paul peered up as another soldier stepped into his vision, a puff of smoke escaping from his pursed lips as he lowered the cigarette. The man's gaze was calculating as he stared down in silence.

“Wait- w-wait, I-I'm not one of them!” Paul stuttered desperately, hands raised in submission, and he took a furtive glance at his arm, only to see the wound seal up, a final bead of red blood trailing down his skin. “I'm human, I-”

*

He woke up to a feeling akin to a mallet repeatedly slamming against his temple. Paul let out a pained groan, hand raising to gingerly touch his head, squinting blearily at his surroundings. His back ached and he felt like shit.

The man who had slammed the butt of his gun into Paul's skull pulled up a chair next to where he sat, taking a puff off his cigarette as he apologised. His stance was crooked and his eyebrows were permanently drawn together in a frown, whilst his curly brown hair was tied back in a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. They clasped hands and he introduced himself as General John McNamara of PEIP, continuing to shake hands for an awkward amount of time until he finally made a terrible pun, inhaled another lungful of smoke, then turned and moved a few paces away to explain the situation.

Paul took the opportunity to investigate himself, glancing down at his hands that looked to have been crudely wiped clean, leaving only traces of blood stuck in the crevices in his skin. He swallowed against the rising tide of grief, instead surreptitiously taking a peek at his right arm to confirm that his wound was indeed healed, and no, he hadn't just imagined the whole thing because his tatty sleeve was stained bright blue with smears and prints of red. They must've checked his blood to verify his human status if he was still left alive, but that didn't make sense, because it was blue, right?

McNamara dropped the joking tone and slid over in his chair, leaning uncomfortably close enough for Paul to smell the smoke on his breath. Paul was only growing more alarmed as the General divulged his orders to wipe Hatchetfield off the map and make sure there were no survivors. The man was certainly peculiar, but it was clear he had good morals, even if he did just fling Paul's iPhone across the room and cause it to shatter against a wall, although the unexpectedly poetic prose he spewed afterwards kind of made up for it.

“Wai-wait, General McNamara!” Paul shot to his feet, strapping the watch to his wrist as he stared earnestly across the room. “I can't leave without... Emma.”

The man sighed, glaring at the opposite wall, looking ragged and exasperated. “Who's Emma, Paul?”

“A... friend of mine,” he explained a little nervously.

“Friends don't move my heart, son,” McNamara said, raising one eyebrow and turning to face him. “Is there a chance it's something more?”

He thought about how Emma had rushed over to him in Beanies, even though he'd just coughed up blue shit and could've been infected, too. He thought about how she'd been willing to trust that he wasn't about to start singing, and content to keep it a secret. He thought about the endearingly nostalgic expression she wore as she spoke of her time in Guatemala, which then gave way to regret and misery as she shared the untimely fate of her sister. He thought about how she'd pulled him aside, small hands clutching at his forearms and head tilted up to look at him, worry and desperation in her features as she begged him to be careful. He thought of the way he'd been mesmerised by her, unable to look away, simultaneously frozen and melted as she reached up to cup his face, rolling forwards onto her toes until their noses were only inches apart, her warm breath fanning over his skin...

“I think so,” he answered softly, “uh, I'd like there to be?” He nodded slightly, feeling certainty flood his mind. “I want there to be.”

A soft pulse of warmth came from his chest at the thought. McNamara whipped out his gun and pointed it at the other man, who reflexively raised his hands in surrender, only for the General to spin the weapon around his finger and offer the handle towards Paul, who hesitantly stepped forward and took it, tucking it behind his back in the waistband of his trousers. They exchanged a final salute before Paul hurried away, desperate to see Emma again.

He managed to find his way back to Hidgens' house without any issues, but that almost made him feel more nervous – surely he should've passed some infecteds, right? His anxiety only grew as he reached the looming outer walls that surrounded the perimeter, noticing that the huge, wrought iron gates had slid aside, opening the building to the world. Why? What had happened? It was supposed to be safe, yet if anyone could just walk in... that meant Emma could be in danger.

Paul sprinted along the front path, kicking up gravel in his wake. Every step crunched loudly underfoot, but his own safety didn't matter to him in that moment. He dashed through the open front door, navigating his way through the house, only to skid to a halt as he noticed two unfamiliar figures skulking down the stairs to the basement. Despite his heaving breaths and completely un-covert approach, they didn't pay him any mind, merely continuing to creep along. Paul waited for a few moments, unsure what to do as the sound of music and lyrics floated up to him, but then Emma started screaming and pleading, and his body moved before he could think.

He shot down the stairs, leaping down several at a time in his haste and miraculously not slipping, landing lightly on his toes at the bottom and pausing for a moment to catch his breath, hidden just behind the wall. The song came to an end; he suddenly realised with a horrified jolt that it had been _Professor Hidgens_ who had been singing.

“Please, God, if you save me right now, I promise I'm gonna be a better person, please-” Ted begged desperately.

Paul ducked low and darted out from cover, crouching behind their chairs and reaching out to untie the hostages' bonds. “It's okay guys, I'm here!”

Emma gasped, spinning around elatedly. Ted muttered an astounded 'God?' before he turned and saw his coworker instead. Paul shushed them, not daring to waste a single moment by grabbing a chair, nodding at the ex-barista to do the same whilst Ted bustled across the room to pick up the keyboard. The three of them hopped onto the bottom step, rapidly stacking up the objects to block the exit somewhat in the hopes of slowing down the infecteds. They stumbled their way up the stairs with Paul in the lead, followed by the fading sound of tearing flesh and Professor Hidgens' screams.

Only when they made it back outside could they take a moment to breathe under the watchful stars.

“Paul, you look like shit,” Emma told him breathlessly, gaze flitting from the dark bruise on his temple to the tear in his sleeve and then the bloodstains on his shirt. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Her bluntness was enough to make his lips quirk up on one side; you could always trust Emma to speak her mind. He winced slightly as she reached up to lightly touch the bruise, but he didn't move away, soothed by the feel of her fingers ghosting over his cheek.

“Bill's daughter was infected,” he told her softly, too quiet for Ted to hear. “She, um... Yeah. He didn't... He didn't make it.”

“Oh... That, uh... That sucks,” Emma muttered sympathetically, reaching out to squeeze at his arm in an attempt to be comforting. “I'm glad you made it out of there, though. It'd be pretty shitty if you died, too.”

Ted got between the two of them, sounding close to tears as he spewed out a long, seemingly heart-felt apology that went on for half an eternity. His hands were cold and clammy as he forcefully linked their fingers together, tugging the three of them into an awkward, close line. Emma looked resigned to her fate, too drained to argue.

Arm suddenly wrapped around Paul from behind, one of the aliens from Hidgens' house crushing him in a vice-like grip whilst screeching out the lyrics to the previous song, tuneless and grating in a manner that might've been comedic if Paul wasn't literally about to be torn apart and resurrected as part of a shitty _musical._ Ted flinched back, pistol in his hands stolen from the other man during the monologue, holding it up in front of him as he backed away, just watching as Paul squirmed and struggled to free himself. Emma dashed over, fingers clawing at the infected's arm to try and get him to loosen his grip, her expression alarmed and frantic as she attempted to pry Paul free. He gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the ground as the alien started to drag him away, watching as Emma yelled at Ted to help, only for the selfish man to sprint away into the night with their only weapon.

Emma growled lowly, spinning back around and practically throwing herself at the infected who was still garbling out lyrics. She knocked him in the back of the knees, causing him to stumble and relinquish his grip enough for Paul to worm his way out, backing up a few steps in a panicked haze and consequently getting a spectacularly cinematic view of Emma kicking the alien in the head with all the spite and protective fury of a badass lioness. The alien didn't move again after a few more good punts, but she wasn't stopping, letting out grunts of exertion with every hit, her hands balled into fists and her face contorted in a blind rage. Paul hastily stepped closer, palms gently resting on her shoulders from behind until she relaxed into his touch and calmed down, leaning back into his chest a little and glaring down at the blue blood that stained her shoe

“My toes fuckin' hurt,” she complained, giving another bitter tap to the infected's still form and immediately hissing in pain. “Ah, fuck.”

“Thanks for saving me there, Emma,” Paul said earnestly.

She shifted slightly then turned around to face him, lips pulled back in a wildly gleeful sort of grin. “That was so cathartic. I've had anger building up for _years,_ working in that stupid fucking coffee shop with Nora and _Zoey_ , and this stupid fucking _alien_ finally gave me a chance to vent all that bullshit. Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah,” Paul echoed in agreement, allowing himself to be buoyed by her joy before he shook his head, getting a glimpse of the General's watch glinting on his wrist and being reminded of the time limit. “We should run if we want to get out of Hatchetfield.”

She nodded, grabbing onto his arm as the two of them started off in the darkness. They kept away from the main streets, lurking on the edge of town and sticking to the trees and bushes where possible, squinting in the darkness. A half moon hung in the sky, partially concealed by silver-hued clouds that dusted most of the inky heavens. Small stars glittered between grey wisps, staring down on them as they clumsily navigated their way to the pick-up site. Every little rustle and patter had them on edge, the window of opportunity too narrow to allow them the luxury of caution. They took shallow, quiet breaths, the night air cool and damp in their lungs.

A gunshot shattered the serenity. Paul immediately shoved Emma behind him, both of them freezing and listening. The pair crept out from the treeline, a low, militant song filling the silence, voices harmonising deeply and dangerously, thudding boots providing a haunting beat, and a single, gruff voice carrying the main melody.

General McNamara and his soldiers had been infected. Ted marched among their ranks, a glimmer of blood spilling from his mouth and a bloom of red on the left of his chest.

They all turned around in perfect unison, pointing out Paul's presence to the General.

“Oh my god,” Emma said breathlessly, turning around to face him, hands reaching up to shake desperately at his shoulders. “We have to get out of here!”

“But the helicopter's coming to meet us here!” He countered, distress seeping into his tone although he tried his best to hide it.

The worst part about the aliens was that they weren't even chasing them, yet Paul still felt cornered. Most of them wore dark tinted visors to conceal their faces, leaving only McNamara and Ted with their eyes visible, looking hollow and malicious. Two of the soldiers stomped forwards, leaning forwards and sweeping out their arms towards the survivors, who both ducked underneath to avoid being caught, only to end up in the middle of the circle. Emma turned around, her gaze suddenly widening in horror as she fumbled for Paul's arm, trying to pull him towards her. He bumped into McNamara and immediately jolted away, unable to reconcile the man who had helped him with the zombie that stood before him.

Ted snuck up behind them in the darkness, gun raised, and snatched Emma away, his arm locked around her torso. Paul reached out to her, only for two more soldiers to crouch down at his feet and immobilise his legs, squeezing tight enough to prevent him from struggling even as he slammed his fists down on their shoulders in a vain attempt to dislodge them. Black boots stepped into his vision and he reluctantly raised his head, expression twisted in fear as he saw McNamara standing before him, lips pulled back in a mockery of a smile. The General reached out, hand clamping around Paul's throat and raising him into the air with inhuman strength. He could feel his pulse pounding violently in his neck, and all he could do was let out a faint choking noise, unable to fight back since the aliens had his wrists restrained behind his back.

His heart thudded against his ribcage and his lungs were scalding in his chest, desperately begging for air.

A gunshot rang out, and Paul crumpled. He collapsed to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, coughing violently.

“Paul!” Emma cried.

He picked himself up rapidly, head whipping to one side to check that she was alright, and relaxing a little when he saw her with the gun in her hand, presumably stolen from Ted. Paul glanced over his shoulder, one palm lightly resting on his throat, and saw McNamara frozen in place, fingertips touching his shoulder with a displeased expression.

“The helicopter,” Emma exclaimed as the noise of rotors filled the air, frantically moving to help the man stand up. “Come on!”

She swiftly linked arms with him, both of them moving in panicked tandem as they sprinted towards the landing site, buffeted by strong winds. A few faint, haunting notes trailed them as they dashed away, feet pounding on rippling grass and eyes blinded by the helicopter lights that promised salvation. Paul's throat burned with every ragged breath, but he couldn't afford to slow down. He was first to leap inside the vehicle, slumping down in the furthest chair and bracing himself with one hand on the pilot's seat, the other gripping Emma's arm to help pull her inside. She placed her palm heavily on Paul's thigh for support, shakily climbing inside and violently dropping into her seat, letting out a relieved, rasping sigh. Both of them were trembling with adrenaline, huddling close together in the back of the helicopter in a way that was almost _intimate_.

He leaned back in his chair, buckling up the seatbelts as they took off. Emma had other ideas, gripping onto the ceiling handle and standing up to glare out the window as they left the ground, screeching out a spectacular 'fuck you, Hatchetfield!' as she flipped off the earth. She slowly eased herself back into her seat, constantly jostled by the movement of the helicopter, one hand clamped around the seat in front as they both thanked the pilot for getting them out of there.

Unease twisted Paul's insides as the pilot let go of the collective joystick, slowly raising her arms towards her face to tug up the visor. Something pulsed in Paul's chest as the first note of a horribly familiar tune left her lips. She snapped around, pistol raised and pointing directly at Emma's chest. Instinct literally kicked in as a desperate desire to protect flooded over Paul, and, as if in slow motion, his foot raised and knocked the gun off course. A microsecond later it was fired, sending the glinting bullet shooting up into the circuitry, white sparks showering down and a shrill alarm going off as the helicopter suddenly careened sideways in the night sky, sending Emma crashing into Paul. He automatically wrapped his arms around her and held on tight, desperate to keep her safe as the vehicle violently twirled back towards the ground, the smell of burning electrics filling the interior.

The crushing restraints around his torso suddenly lifted with a _snap_ as the seatbelts gave way at the last second. Momentum flung him forwards, and he smashed his forehead against the seat in front, igniting a flare of blinding, burning agony that flooded through his skull and scorched down his spine. Emma screamed, and-

He woke up in the dirt. He felt groggy and heavy and his entire body ached.

His cheek was pressed against cool grass, although it felt a little sticky. A warm droplet trickled down from his forehead, following the curves of his face until it settled on the ground. He swiped a tongue over his dry lips, tasting soil and iron and something acrid. There was a shrill ringing in his ears, loud and buzzing, covering everything else. After a few more dazed moments of laying still, Paul finally found the energy to slowly blink open his eyes, revealing a blurry mosaic of darkness with a few smudges of warm amber. He stared blankly for a second, then blinked again, clearing his sight enough for him to make out vague shapes of bushes and trees. A few patches of drier grass danced with embers and dying flames that flickered as a soft breeze swayed past, and cool moonlight cast silver upon the landscape since the faint clouds had drifted away.

In the corner of his vision was the cockpit of a helicopter, cracks radiating across the glass but seeming otherwise mostly unharmed. Faltering lights glowed gently, just enough to illuminate the still figure of the pilot who was slumped sideways in her seat after the crash.

Wait... the crash...?

The humming in his ears gradually faded as adrenaline kicked back in. He could hear the helicopter's engine lightly thrumming. There wasn't a single note of song in the air. It sounded like something was being dragged across the grass, quiet breaths interspersed with sobs and cries of pain gradually growing closer to him from behind.

“Paul, oh _fuck,_ shit, Paul... please be okay... please be alive... _Paul..._ ” Emma's strained, choked voice broke, and she let out a heavy breath that bordered on a whine.

A hand lightly touched his shoulder then immediately darted away, only for her to gently place it back down, clutching a little tighter and shaking him a little. He couldn't find the energy to even make a sound, feeing strangely detached from his own body as his eyes flickered shut again.

“Fuck... Paul, _please_... come on...” She gripped a bit harder, pausing for a moment before roughly tugging him.

He flopped onto his back, air expelled from his lungs and his eyes fluttering open once more, hazily settling on Emma. There was a moment where she was silent, her lips pulling up in a gleeful smile, but her gaze locked onto his forehead and all joy drained from her tear-stained features, snatching her hand away like it had been burnt and flinching backwards. Her face screwed up in pain and she reached down, clutching at her leg.

“Emma...?” Paul rasped, squinting and struggling to move, only to freeze as he saw the metal rod impaled through her thigh.

“Shut up, you're not Paul! You're one of _them,_ ” she snapped, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she glared at him.

“What...? Emma, I'm not-”

“You're infected. After all this bull _shit,_ they got you. And now you're going to kill _me,_ too, because I can't fucking _run._ ” Her tone was hysterical, and the hand she violently gesticulated with was covered in red blood.

He wrinkled his nose, slamming his palms against the ground behind him as he forced himself into a sitting position, head spinning and whole body thrumming with pain. Paul lifted an arm to touch his forehead, wincing, and when he pulled it away there was blue blood coating his fingertips, sinking into the whorls of his prints and dripping down his fingers.

“Do it, you bastard. Just hurry up and get it over with. I give up. I'm done.” She raised her arms towards the black sky and tilted her head back, lips pulled back in a defiant snarl despite the defeated tears glittering on her face. “You hear that, God, you fucking _bitch?_ Emma Perkins has _finally_ given up! Isn't that what you wanted by putting me through this shitty hell I call my life?! Well, whoop-de- _fucking_ -do! Congratulations! _I quit!_ You win! Are you happy now, you massive _dick?!_ ”

“Emma- Emma, _shh!_ ” Paul hissed quietly, twisting around and showing his palms submissively. “I'm not infected!”

“Your blood is fucking blue!” She shrieked, fingers tensed into curved claws that she shook at his head for emphasis, like she wanted to throttle him for saying such a stupid thing.

“Well- okay, yeah, but- this happened before, Emma! I got shot in the arm, here, look, see?” He motioned towards his ripped sleeve and the azure that coated it. “But it healed, and I think my blood went back to red afterwards! Is this wound healing, too?”

She was silent aside from a few sniffles, although her suspicious gaze briefly flickered up to his forehead, narrowing her eyes and frowning before slowly nodding. Her rapid breathing eased up a little and she dragged the back of her hand across her face, leaving behind a smudge of blood.

“I- I think I was infected, back at Beanies, but it wasn't enough blue shit to fully overcome me, so I control it, and I guess it heals me when I get badly hurt, or something.” He trailed off, worried gaze locking onto her bloody thigh. “Emma, I-I hate to say this right now, but this is what seatbelts are for.”

She let out a low growl, baring her teeth. “ _Yeah,_ because that worked out _so well_ for you, Paul.”

He inclined his head in silent agreement, shifting on the grass now that he felt less heavy and painful and ghosting his palms near her wound, not daring to touch in case he accidentally infected her. “Emma, Emma... we're still in Hatchetfield, we need to get to the shore! We- We need to find a boat, or something-”

A guttural scream of pain spilled from her lips as he tried to help her sit up straighter. He hastily let go, guilt creasing his features, half blue with blood, both dried and fresh. The flow was easing up as the wound healed, until a final trickle of scarlet trailed down his nose indicated that it had sealed up completely. Emma tracked the movement with her eyes as it dripped over his lips and down his chin, soaking into his collar amongst the blue splashes from that long-ago morning. She blinked suddenly, meeting his gaze once more and rapidly launching into a theory about destroying the meteor to sever the connection and defeat the Hive. He nodded faintly, getting up and heading over to the helicopter and tugging a string of grenades off the body of Zoey, pulling it on and letting the strap lay diagonally across his torso, then heading right back to kneel at Emma's side.

His palm settled gently on the small of her back, the other hand hovering uncertainly above her injured thigh. She spoke in a low tone, voice always soft but occasionally growing strained as another wave of pain hit her whenever she shifted slightly on the grass. The apology for her spitting in the coffee a few times gleaned a brief smile from him, small and amused and fond, and she was slowly leaning up, closer to him, tired gaze shyly flitting between his tie and his eyes. He could see where parts of her make-up had smudged and run over the course of the stressful day, but it didn't matter to him because she was _Emma,_ and it seemed insane to feel such adoration for someone he'd known personally for twelve hours, but with her... it made sense.

“You might accidentally infect me, but at this point I don't think I care, so... kiss me?” She met his gaze, vulnerability raw on her pretty features and the moonlight threading her messy hair with ethereal silver.

“Okay,” Paul agreed awkwardly, gradually leaning in and closing his eyes, some part of him questioning whether it felt like the right moment but figuring that since he might end up dead soon anyway, at least he could say he had kissed the amazing woman he'd had a dumb crush on for months.

Emma suddenly coughed violently, and warm blood spattered on his face. He jolted back, eyes still closed for a moment as she spluttered a few more times. His expression was faintly traumatised, and he was too stunned to do much more than blankly stare off into the darkness, trying to process what had just happened.

“Oh... Oh, Emma...” He said stiffly, not moving his palm from her back.

“Oh, yep... That's a lotta blood... uh...” She glanced down and dragged a knuckle across her mouth, wiping away some of the mess. “I think that... I think that's all of it, though,” Emma reached forwards, gripping onto his tie and gently tugging him forwards, her expression slightly delirious, “so get back on in here...”

Paul stopped before they could kiss, because the moment had _definitely_ passed. “No thanks,” he mumbled, gaze locked onto the crimson staining her mouth. “No, I... I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, you're right, fuck it,” she muttered in a pained voice, releasing his tie and leaning back into a more comfortable position. “Get outta here.”

“Okay...” He got to his feet, sparing another look down at her before starting to stride away. “Byee.”

*

Paul stepped through the doorway, ducking a little to avoid the broken plaster. Rows upon rows of seats were lined up ahead of him, split only by walkways lined with inset lights that seemed to beckon him closer. The shattered roof splintered the velvet sky, wooden beams like fingers pointing down towards the meteor that dominated centre stage, stuck firmly in the crumpled flooring that was still smouldering slightly. A single stream of glowing moonbeams shone down like a spotlight on the stage, as if heralding a glorious act. Dust glittered in the glow, illuminated into flakes of silver that seemed to cascade from the heavens. The ceiling was creaking and groaning ominously and a breeze hummed down through the gaping hole, bringing faint salty scents of the ocean he longed to cross with Emma to escape this whole nightmare.

“The old Starlight Theatre,” he commented to himself, if only to ease the crushing silence of the building.

Paul stepped cautiously down the aisle, paces light and quiet on the deep red carpet. He kept both hands firmly clasped around the belt of grenades, his shoulders hunched anxiously and his wide eyes darting around for any signs of movement. One of the twisted roof supports had collapsed directly in his path, and he spared a furtive glance at his surroundings before dipping down and creeping underneath it, faced with the stage that he immediately clambered onto. A large, gnarled chunk of rock commandeered the room, coloured mostly a burnt grey, but with ominous twists of blue hues.

“There it is,” he whispered, breathless with nerves, “the meteor.”

Footsteps emanated from stage left, and he instantly snapped around, stomach dropping in horror as he saw Bill prowling out from the shadows, arms smoothly waving like twisted branches and vacant eyes unsettlingly wide. He spun to face stage right, startled by Ted slithering into view, followed by Emma's boss. Hidgens strode onto stage like he was on a catwalk, almost passing for normal until he raised his tensed hands and stared dramatically out into the empty audience for a moment before hunching over creepily towards the middle of the stage. Mr. Davidson took his place behind Bill, closest to the meteor and wearing an eerily wide grin that the other aliens had donned, too. Greenpeace Girl swayed into position behind Ted, teeth bared as she spat her bitter words.

Paul stubbornly grabbed at the topmost grenade on his belt, looping his trembling finger through the ring but faltering before he could pull it out. If he pulled the pin, he'd die. If he pulled the pin, he'd never see Emma again. But if he pulled the pin... the world would be safe from the apotheosis.

“It doesn't matter what I want,” he stated firmly after slightly too long a pause, both hands clasped protectively around the grenade and his face a picture of fear.

The first notes of an ominous melody trickled out from the meteor, resonating in the air around him, thrumming through his blood and dancing through his bones. Something within his mind eagerly returned the call like an excited child, but he shook his head and hunched down on himself, stubbornly resisting what felt like foreign instinct. He stared out over the darkened theatre, gaze skimming over the seats and counting the lights along the aisle to try and ground himself, determined to reject the infection.

Mr. Davidson stepped up with a feral grin, hands clamping onto his shoulders from behind whilst the Greenpeace Girl passed in front, aggressively slapping her palms down onto his chest and dragging them up across to the other side, then ghosting her fingernails over the back of his head. Paul cringed away, nausea swirling in his stomach and tension building in his chest, yet unable to persuade his body to counter their approaches. He was distracted by Emma's boss singing and getting closer, consequently not noticing Bill on his other side until his knuckles lightly brushed across Paul's cheek, taunting him with a best friend who no longer existed. His hand moved on its own, reaching out towards Bill's back, emotional agony lancing across his form until he was caught off guard by Ted and Hidgens slipping in front of and behind him, cold, dead fingers trailing over his body in a manner that felt so violating that he physically recoiled, gagging.

With every rough touch and smooth note, the infection within him grew closer to the surface, buzzing angrily beneath his skin and ready to get retribution for being suppressed for so long. His arm twitched, darting out to one side without his consent, and he hastily snapped it back to his torso, clamping a hand around his wrist to lock it into place. Both arms spread out before his palms pressed onto his hips, jutting to one side involuntarily, his lungs burning as he doubled over, shaking his head and choking back upset whimpers.

He didn't want to let it out. He _refused._ He had to stay in control, for Emma's sake, to make sure the infection-

“ _Never!_ ”

-got out of Hatchetfield. _Shit._ Paul clamped his hands over his mouth, trying to stop the spores far too late, feeling a whole other consciousness start to rise up within him, bubbly glee filling his body at the prospect of finally being able to sing and dance.

A grin tore across his face, eyes wide and manic as he toed forwards, hands shaking to the beat. “ _Am I finally coming 'round to a rhyming scheme?_ ”

The aliens weren't even singing anymore, just swaying hypnotically with triumphant smiles, lined up in a V on either side of him with the meteor at its tip. Paul moved against his will, movements small and simple as the infection grew accustomed to his body, every note coming out shrill and sharp.

“I'm split in two! Is this me?” His teeth bared in a mockery of joy once more, posture opening up as he spread his arms towards the audience. “ _Or is this you?!_ ”

It looked as if the rows of chairs were no longer empty as a blueish haze settled over his vision. Human silhouettes were watching him expectantly, all laughing gleefully at his performing predicament. He stood at the front of the stage, basking in their cheers and attention, happy to spread their songs to unite the world and encourage everyone to join them. Any attempt at resisting was warped into a song and dance, taunting him with his uselessness.

Paul collapsed onto his hands and knees, gagging and shoving his fingers into his mouth, desperately trying to dislodge the thick liquid that clogged his throat and weighed down his body. His legs gave way, sprawling out across the dusty floorboards, choking for air the aliens didn't even need and inhaling more spores each time. He gritted his teeth, face screwing up in pain and his hand clenching over his stomach that burnt even more agonisingly as the infection settled inside, hooking into his flesh and burrowing deep within his soul. The infecteds' harmonies resonated through his brain, and they simultaneously dropped into crouches, heads dipped down and fingers splayed across the ground on either side.

As the tune from the meteor grew more melancholic, the pain in Paul's body settled, allowing him to slowly sit back up, kneeling at the front of the stage and gazing out at the watchful audience. A cloud shifted over the moon, breaking up the bright beams to cast a spotlight down upon the unwilling actor forced to participate in the thing he loathed the most.

“I've never been happy... _Wouldn't that be nice?_ ” His voice fluctuated from low to high, the infection making itself at home enough to gain access to different notes, singing his innermost thoughts into the blue-tinged darkness. “Is this the secret? _Singing and dancing though life?_ ” He sank down into himself, misery tainting his tone as he stared forlornly across the theatre. “Is my integrity worth anything at all?” An eerie smile pulled as his lips, shoulders rolling in time and hands falling from the grenade over his heart. “ _But happiness can't come before its fall._ ”

Paul slowly got back to his feet, still unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd started singing. At the very least, he managed to clasp his fingers around the grenade again, swearing to himself that he'd pull the pin the moment he got close enough to the meteor. The aliens would get what _they_ wanted, because they wanted him to let it out. He'd play his part, but he wouldn't give in, no matter how warped or confused his thoughts became as his mind and the hive started to merge, delight and disgust growing more difficult to distinguish, his voice sounding foreign to his ears and his body rebelling against its original owner to twirl around as if this nightmare was _fun._

The meteor was closer, now. He stopped resisting the singing to focus his efforts on fiddling with the grenade, fighting his own muscles to ensure survival. Paul tugged it loose from the belt, cupped between his palms, a small beacon of hope to encourage him to keep going. The music was reaching its peak, fast and electric, frantic harmonies buzzing as the aliens chorused their mantra, grinning as if they'd already won, but he wouldn't let them, because he was the only one who could stop the apotheosis from spreading across the world, and he _refused_ to let Emma get infected.

A final few notes played, low and definitive. The aliens converged upon him, hands clawing at him, reaching over to try and stop him, but he raised his arms, face set into something fierce as he steeled his resolve and pulled the pin and flung the grenade towards the source of his personal hell.

“I don't like musicals!”

It was too close. Paul was going to die. He was sacrificing himself for the greater good, but he-

He wanted-

*

Emma clutched at the straps of her new grey backpack, provided to her by PEIP. She stepped out of the empty hospital corridor, following the silent nurse who guided her back into the room that had been her home for the past two shitty weeks. The clothes she wore were the ones she was rescued in, but at least they had been cleaned of all the blood, even the blue stains from when Paul had-

God, _Paul..._

Fuck that. She was already depressed enough without the reminder that she'd sent a kind, innocent man to his death. But, hey, as much as she hated the name, maybe it was good to be resurrected as Kelly – maybe it'd give her a fresh start, or some shit.

The PEIP soldier stepped across the room, posture pristine, chin tilted up, and a certain hardness in the lines of her face. Sarcasm was Emm- _Kelly's_ \- nope, no, fuck that- _Emma's_ only reliable defence against any horrible emotions, and since everyone and everything she ever knew and loved or loathed had been obliterated indiscriminately with the destruction of Hatchetfield, that meant more snark than previously thought possible was injected into her tone, bitterly trying to make light of the situation.

A brown envelope was handed over, and she clutched it in front of her chest, peering inside at her new documents, but her dream of starting a pot farm suddenly didn't seem so appealing. Before, it was all she ever wanted to get the fuck _away_ from her shitty little hometown, drop off the grid, and live on her own where-ever the hell she wanted, maybe with a dog or two, and yet... Without Paul, the idea seemed a whole lot more lonely, and not even the idea of more puppies could console her.

Jesus Christ, she'd been on talking terms with the man for less than a day, and yet he'd made more of an impact on her than literally anyone else she'd ever met. That was pretty pathetic.

She smiled tightly at the soldier, swinging her bag off one shoulder and unzipping it to place the envelope securely inside. Emma blinked, biting the inside of her cheek and hoping she didn't look too foolishly vulnerable as she glanced over at the woman.

“Um, Colonel Schaffer...” She swallowed, half of her not wanting the concrete confirmation but the other half knowing it was better to kill any hope before she got lost in a false reality. “You're sure there were no other survivors?”

“We've been through this, Kelly, there were no other survivors,” Schaffer insisted, a note of exasperation woven into her voice.

Emma clenched her jaw and looked down, busying herself with pulling the backpack on, flashing a grin at the mention of Peanuts' survival. At least that was one piece of good news on the mountain of shit involving Hatchetfield, and ah, fuck, her stupid brain went right back to thinking about Paul again. Colonel Schaffer didn't need to tell her he was a good man: she knew well enough how amazing he was. She gave a lazy salute in response, resigning herself to a life of misery until the woman spoke up again, and for fuck's sake, why did she let herself feel a spike of hope?

“Oh, I- I don't know any Ben Bridges,” she said confusedly, squinting and clutching at the straps of her bag.

“Well, according to our records, you two were very good friends.” Schaffer quirked an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging on one corner of her mouth. “PEIP would like to see it become something more.”

With a cryptic wink, she turned and left. That was... really weird. Well, now she just had to wait f-

Her mind went blank. Her mouth was dry. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, almost reverently, not daring to speak any louder in case she shattered the illusion, because surely it couldn't be him, right?

Not a single brown hair was out of place, swept carefully to the side. His white shirt was pristine, without the plethora of bloody stains it possessed last time they'd seen one another. The man broke into a gentle, genuine smile that displayed his perfect teeth and crinkled the corners of his blue eyes, so wonderful and real, glittering with joy. Had they always been so bright?

“Paul!” Her face lit up ecstatically and she wasted no time in hurrying towards him, arms out. “You made it!” She didn't know what to do with her hands, aborting a clasping motion in favour of cupping her face, only to reach out and grab his forearms – he was solid, he was real! “We made it!”

He gave a little nod, chuckles rumbling in the back of his throat and his grin never fading. She eagerly leaned into him, hands fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket, unwilling to let go, feeling indescribably safe when wrapped up in his arms, their cheeks pressed tightly together. The gentle beat of his heart and the movement of his chest with every breath confirmed that she wasn't just hallucinating out of grief, and he really was there, alive and well, and smelling of- _hell,_ she didn't even know, but it didn't matter because he smelt _good,_ and although she'd never intended to get married and settle down, maybe, with him-

“ _Emma, I'm sorry... you lost..._ ”

...what. What the fuck. She found herself tensing up, uneasy goosebumps rising on her arms as a shiver ran down her spine. Emma leaned back to smile at him questioningly, allowing her hands to rest on his sides whilst his stayed on her shoulders. It must've been a joke, right? Yeah. Definitely. He was just teasing her. It was probably good to make light of the situation they'd both certainly escaped by joking so they weren't as traumatised.

But his bright eyes... and that frozen smile...

“Paul?” She said hopefully, internally praying to whatever fucking deity was listening that he was just messing with her, because she stupidly adored the warmth of his hands clasped softly around hers.

“ _Emma, I'm sorry you lost your way._ ”

“Paul, you're scaring me,” she told him, prying their hands apart.

For a moment his expression flickered, eyebrows lowering and lips turning down in a way that was almost sad, but it quickly jolted back into an insistent smile. He linked their hands together and slipped his other arm around her back, pulling her around in a waltz to a tune she couldn't hear. His singing was soft and intimate, and he guided her through dance moves with ease and grace, flinging out his arms and never taking his intense gaze off her. She winced as his grip on her wrist grew too tight, fingers clamped down on the bone and not relenting even when she turned around and tried to pry them away, staring at a doorway and wondering where the _hell_ Schaffer had vanished off to.

“ _I'm still the man you trust,_ ” he sang gently, one hand locked with hers while the other motioned towards himself and the terrifyingly wide blue eyes she once adored.

She could barely breathe, only able to stare in horror at the face that should've been friendly but now held no hint of humanity. “No... no...”

He leaned in closer, stooping down to be at eye level when she dipped her head. “ _It's inevitable for us._ ”

“No! Get away from me! You're not Paul, you're one of them!” Emma shrieked, desperately trying to loosen his grip, only to falter at the sudden stricken look he gained.

He blinked and dashed off behind her, leaning his elbow on Professor Hidgens who emerged from the doorway. She stumbled back a step, thigh throbbing in pain. There were two of them, and she could barely walk, let alone run – she was fucked, but she wasn't going down that easy.

Emma spun around, heading for the other doorway, only to flinch back with a yelp as her nurse entered. For a brief moment, she let herself entertain the idea of being saved, only to stare in horror as the nurse joined in on the choreography, all three of them facing towards a window as if there was an audience they were performing for. Paul caught her, hands braced on either side of her body, gently swaying her to their song as if encouraging her to join them. It was a lot gentler a manner than most of the other infecteds had been, and she stupidly let herself be soothed by how passive he was, one hand automatically reaching up to brush over his elbow before he shifted into another pose and moved away.

Three other aliens strode in. Two of them were Paul's friends when they were alive, but now they were mindless drones, clean of blood and clear of visible injury. They moved into a triangle with Paul at the front. He was crouched low, back to clasping their hands together between them and leaning in close, his breath warm on her face. She felt like she was suffocating, gaze frantically flicking across his falsely friendly features, the emotional pain of seeing him like this practically cleaving her in two. His singing grew softer as he gazed up at her, pulling their joined hands up and dipping his face against her fingers, only to suddenly jolt and fling her carelessly away.

They shifted into a mockery of the stupid song she'd had to learn at Beanies as Nora strode in to join the fray of taunting demons, as if she wasn't having a shitty enough time _without_ the addition of her annoying ex-boss. Emma backed up, taking the opportunity to sprint from the area as best she could, only to be faced with a blockade made of chairs and vending machines, far too heavy for her to move on her own. The white lights in the ceiling briefly blinded her as she spun around, frantically looking for another exit and feeling her pounding heart leap with elation as she saw another door. She ran towards it and dashed inside, only for her blood to run cold as she realised she was back in the same room as before, and it was just a fucking _loop._

Emma stared at the window, contemplating how likely it was that she'd be able to survive leaping out of it. She froze, staring in mingled bewilderment and terror as she noticed shadows of people beyond the glass, just sitting there and watching while the hive tormented her with her worst fears realised. Fuck. She'd lost it. She'd finally broken under the stress of all this bullshit, and now she was seeing an audience.

Well, who gave a shit, right? The world was fucked and everyone was going to die. Who cares if she was starting to yell at a window, as if the silhouettes would be able to help her escape this nightmare?

Bill and that creep Ted came up to her just as she was persuading one of the watchers to give her their phone, grabbing her arms and dragging her back to the centre of the room that was almost starting to look like a stage in her fear-addled mind. She limped along, distraught sobs spilling from her mouth as she gasped for air, her vision blurring with tears and her whole body trembling. Paul had his arms spread like he was directing the show, smile sharp and unchanging as he watched her get pulled away.

“ _The hive needs to feed!_ ” He crept closer, shoes sliding across the linoleum floor. “ _Happiness is guaran-_ ”

Paul suddenly fell silent, lips parted and body locked in pose. Emma was released and she stumbled away, gaze automatically locking onto the man. She took in a breath, crying ceasing abruptly as she noticed how bewildered and conflicted and utterly _human_ he looked. The infecteds were humming lowly, keeping the tune going but not moving, as if the song couldn't progress without him leading it.

“I'm not happy,” Paul whispered, hardly louder than an exhale, his limbs slowly relaxing as a look of realisation crossed his face. “This... this isn't what I want...”

She shouldn't let herself hope. The hive was probably screwing with her emotions before they killed her. But there she was, hoping like a stupid, naïve little kid, hands balling up in the fabric of her white shirt above her churning stomach, unable to tear her gaze away from the man.

“Paul?” She murmured, because if there was even the slightest chance that he was okay, she wanted to know.

His blue eyes snapped over to her, still bright and beautiful but not unnaturally so. There was a long pause where he stared at her as if he was waking up from a dream, and in the lull the hive's humming grew more agitated, but she'd long since delegated it to background noise. He looked down at his hands, turning them over and wiggling his fingers, expression perplexed and disbelieving. Paul stood up straighter, shoulders tensed as he took a step away from the aliens, who he stared at with dawning horror, gaze wide but justifiably so as he took in the scene.

For a few more moments he glanced at himself, the hive, and Emma, slowly seemingly to return to his senses. He blinked again, chest still heaving anxiously, before his expression smoothed out and he gazed at her guiltily like a despondent puppy, advancing a step that made her cautiously back up, still not sure if she could trust him.

“E-Emma, I'm sorry,” he choked out, coming to a halt as she flinched, unable to control her response to the echoed words despite the lack of musical lilt to them. “The hive took over, I didn't want to hurt you, I swear.”

The aliens swayed a little more aggressively, grins fading into snarls, but remaining in place lined up along the back of the room with their arms draped over shoulders. He twisted around to face them with an unexpected glare, shifting a few paces sideways and spreading his arms, causing their attention to switch off of her and onto him.

“You wanted me to want, right? Well, I _want_ to stay human, and I _want_ to stay with Emma, and I _want_ to destroy the hive,” he ranted, an awkward sort of fury to his tone, like he wasn't used to being mad – which was adorable, to be honest, and so perfectly _Paul_ that she found herself relaxing, letting out a watery giggle of relief.

He glanced over his shoulder with a delighted sort of smile - because of _course_ he'd be dorky enough to get joy from making her happy, what did she expect? - then returned his focus in front of him as the others simultaneously kicked out a leg and stepped forwards, growing rage in their vibrato and their faces twitching more rapidly, as if they wanted to burst into song. Emma paused before deciding _fuck it_ and limping forwards to stand at his side, ducking under his arm and comfortably settling next to him, meeting his gleeful gaze and nervous smile with an exhausted smirk. She lightly tugged at his wrist to wordlessly give him permission to rest his arm on her shoulders, partially to reassure him that she trusted him like a fool, but mostly to comfort herself with the warm weight of his embrace.

“Fuck you, alien bastards!” Emma snarled, flipping them off to vent all the horrible emotion that the monsters had caused in the past two weeks, satisfied by the shrill note she got in response. “Yeah, that's right. You thought you could win? Joke's on you, because you're never getting to Paul again! I won't let you!”

“Emma,” Paul warned cautiously, moving his other hand to grab at her shoulder and pull her back. “You probably shouldn't taunt them.”

“They're stuck here, Paul! I think we deserve some retribution after all these fuckers put us through,” she exclaimed spitefully, on an adrenaline high fueled by fear and relief, but was quick to shrink back into him as the infecteds lunged forwards again. “Nope, okay, no, fuck that. You're right. Let's go.”

They hurried from the room, freezing when faced with the blockade, but after a glance at her, Paul stepped forwards and yanked chairs loose with more strength than Emma thought he possessed – but then she remembered his biceps when he'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and it made a lot more sense. He tore down the wall and revealed the rest of the corridor, casting a contemplative look at her once more before moving closer and stooping down to scoop her into his arms. She bit back a surprised squeak, another flash of hot-cold panic coursing through her body for a brief moment before she relaxed in his strong arms, shifting a little so she wasn't pulling her stitches. Paul smiled down at her, face flushed an endearing red that she admired for a moment before clutching onto his top as he started moving, carefully navigating the remaining debris and shocking her by continuing to dash through the hospital halls instead of putting her down.

Most of the ward doors were closed, and the haunting sound of songs thrummed through the corridors. He held her a little closer as he started to run down the stairs, barely slowing his speed in his desperation to escape, every step jostling her violently in his arms. She kept her gaze over his shoulder, watching their backs vigilantly, because there was no fucking _way_ she was going to let them get jumped when they were so close to being free. A few people sitting in the reception area stared at them oddly as they passed, looking a little alarmed to see someone barrelling through – which meant the infection hadn't spread through the entire hospital yet. There wasn't anything they could do to help, since they'd be called crazy if they tried to warn people of a musical apocalypse, and they had no way of knowing how to cure it since blowing up the meteor seemed to be a bust.

But to be honest, Emma didn't give a fuck about all these strangers, or Clivesdale. Paul was alive, and they were getting out of these hellish towns, and she was content to stay by his side for the rest of their lives.

Whoa. _Moving a little fast there, Perkins,_ she thought, a little embarrassed. _You barely know the man._

Emma found herself laughing freely as Paul sprinted through the streets, huffing heavily and clearly exhausted, yet still beaming and chuckling along with her. She felt a little delirious with joy, not quite able to believe that this wasn't a dream, but the heat of the sun on her skin and the uneven pounding of his footsteps on the pavement grounded her in the moment. It was only when they'd got a good distance away from the doomed hospital that he slowed down, wheezing a little wetly but taking the time to carefully set her down before he doubled over, coughing and gasping for air. Emma patted his back a little nervously, eyes widening in concern as he choked up azure, spitting it onto the pale ground at his feet, making pained rasping noises and spluttering up even more. The blue shit splattered grotesquely, spilling over his lips as a grim reminder that this bullshit wasn't over yet.

“...Paul?” She mumbled hesitantly, one palm splayed across his back, the other clutching his shoulder.

He didn't respond, breathing raggedly in the wake of the goo. His eyes were squeezed shut and his cheeks had gone pale. Just when Emma was ready to have another breakdown at the thought of him being overcome by the infection once more, he calmed down and recovered, raising a sleeve to swipe it across his mouth. Paul blinked sideways, looking up at her and flashing a shy smile, faint tints of blue remaining in the lines of his white teeth.

“I won't tell if you won't,” he said with a soft huff of laughter.

She pressed the heel of her hand against one teary eye, rolling her eyes skyward with a disbelieving giggle before facing him once more. “Alright,” she softly responded in an amused tone, gentle hands helping the man stand back up straight. “But the moment I think you're about to sing or dance, I'm gone.”

Paul shrugged off his suit jacket, turning the sleeves inside-out before tying it around his waist, then rolling up the white sleeves of his dress shirt. She watched with a smile, grabbing back onto his forearms the moment he was done, clearly countering what she had just stated since she was so unwilling to let go of him for too long now that she'd only just got him back. He gave an awkward sort of crooked grin, moving forwards to envelop her in a timid hug that grew tighter when she reciprocated, until both of them were clinging onto each other for dear life. His fingers dug into her back under her bag while she nuzzled into his chest, warm and safe and thinking disgustingly sappy thoughts.

A delighted little giggle spilled from his mouth, which he tried to muffle by dipping his head low and pressing his face into her shoulder. She snorted faintly, squeezing him a bit harder for a moment to try and non-verbally get across the message of how dorky he was. He straightened back up, suddenly pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead and smiling nervously when she peered up at him with raised eyebrows. His cheeks bloomed red under her entertained gaze - who gave him the right to be so fucking cute, anyway?

He moved closer again, squishing his cheek against her temple and letting out a soft, contented sigh. “I wouldn't ask for anything else, Emma.”

She let herself relish in the moment for a second longer before reluctantly pulling away, soothing his saddened expression by interlocking their fingers. Her gaze flickered down the empty street and she tugged on the strap of her grey backpack, definitely feeling so restless because she was desperate to get away from Clivesdale and not at all because she was excited to take the first step towards their- _her_ future.

“So, what now?” He asked hesitantly, seemingly having the same thought process as her as he blinked towards the horizon.

“Well, I guess I've got a pot farm calling my name in Colorado,” she commented, nervously rocking back onto her heels.

“Is, uh...” Paul faltered, gaze flickering down to their joined hands. “Is there maybe room for someone else to join you?”

“Maybe.” She blinked coyly up at him. “It depends who wants to join me.”

“Oh, um... Can I? Join you, I mean.”

It was tempting to keep teasing him, but he was too adorable and she was eager to get on with things, so she flashed him a smile, one eyebrow raised. “I think I'd like that, Paul.”

He beamed at her, breath punctuated with an exhilarated laugh. “I think I would too, Emma.”

“Adorable,” she muttered, wearing a shit-eating grin when he got all flustered again - he didn't need to know about the butterflies he gave her; not now, not ever – she had a reputation to uphold.

Paul linked their hands together a little more tightly, taking a deep breath and glancing to her for reassurance before they both took their first step together. It was completely uncoordinated, and since he had much longer legs, Emma got tugged forwards a little further than expected, and consequently nearly collapsed when trying to compensate by putting weight on her bad leg, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

Because as long as she was with Paul, everything would be okay.

And, really... Okay was _wonderful._

**Author's Note:**

> Discord server: [Xen's Den](https://discord.gg/DSBF4dP)


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